This series is a study in alternate universes, because I bloody adore AUs. Each of the 26 stand-alone installments in this series will focus on a different letter of the alphabet, and a different universe along with it. Throughout these various worlds and versions of our beloved BBC Sherlock characters will be adventures and first-meetings and new lives, but there is one constant: Sherlock and John, finding each other, staying together.

I'm going to try to update approximately every two weeks with a new story. Hopefully I can stick to that schedule, what with school and work and all that. Wish me luck and enjoy the ride :)

John barely got in the door before he heard his flatmate's triumphant cries.

"Ah good, John, you're home. You'll be pleased to know that I am brilliant!"

He chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, I know. What did you do this time, O Great One?" He hurried up the stairs, wondering what his odd friend had done this time.

Sherlock was perched on a three-legged stool, a thin brush tucked behind his left ear, a larger one behind his right, each soaked in a different color of paint. It was clear he was waiting for John, eyes bright in anticipation to show off his latest genius. John bit back a grin as he took in more of his friend's appearance. His ebony curls were in disarray, his shirt and jeans were flecked with various paint splatters, and there was a long streak of pale blue acrylic across his forehead, where it seemed he had reached up to brush his almost-too-long hair out of his eyes.

"Look," Sherlock said and turned the easel before him around. John's breath caught.

The landscape before him was so accurate and vivid that he was certain, for a moment, he could reach out and touch the leaves. The painting depicted a forest and stream with slanting sunlight poking through the branches overhead. Off to the side of the stream was, as usual, Sherlock's signature gnarled tree, black and brooding and ominous. Something about how the light crept through the treetops but never touched the tree - which John called in his mind The Tree of Darkness - gave the entire work an oddly paradoxical tone of serenity and foreboding. It was unquestionably beautiful, but the tree gave it a layer of complexity it wouldn't otherwise have.

"How did you get the light so realistic?" John asked in a tone bordering on awe. While John had long ago reconciled the fact that his own painting skills would never equal Sherlock's, it still amazed him the things his manic flatmate could accomplish. He rather hoped that wonder never went away.

Sherlock was barely suppressing a smug grin. He leapt off the stool and tugged down a few of the black and white photographs he had been developing (in the honest-to-goodness dark room he'd set up in the basement flat, 221C). When he handed them to John, he launched into one of his usual hundred-words-a-minute tirades about his process.

"I've been working with examining how light behaves under different circumstances, like its refraction and reflection and-"

John zoned out, not that he meant to. It was just that the painting kept capturing his attention. His eyes wandered along the pebbly bank of the brook, admiring how the bubbles of the water sparkled in a patch of sunlight, then noticing how the needles of the pine looked so real he was half-sure that if he were to touch the canvas they would poke him back.

He wondered, again, about the Tree of Darkness. Every time Sherlock painted anything, even an urban scene or an indoor scene, he found a way to fit it in. An art gallery filled with people would be gravitating toward a meta version of his Tree painting. A street scene would be shadowed by its incongruous presence, creeping up the walls of the buildings like a bizarre bit of ivy. A fabulous ball scene would have a gnarled, earthy chandelier instead of gleaming crystal and glass. But his paintings hadn't always had the Tree, though; over the last ten years or so its presence had become more and more frequent, until finally, it was in every work Sherlock painted. John had never had the courage to ask Sherlock about the tree's significance, sensing it was some sort of personal matter, a secret Sherlock couldn't help but express in his art even if he was unable to muster the words. John knew he was one of the few people Sherlock had ever trusted; he dreaded doing something to betray that trust, and so kept quiet.

"... And then I- John? Are you even listening to me?"

John blinked, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock's painting to fix on the man himself. "Sorry, yeah, got distracted for a moment. That's amazing, though, Sherlock, really."

His paint-spattered flatmate rolled his eyes. "The point is," he continued without a single indication John had been a bad listener. "Artists cannot always rely on our eyes alone. We have to study, and quantify, and observe, in order to accurately portray our surroundings. Especially things as ephemeral and complex as light."

Sherlock's eyes were full of light too, at the moment, and John couldn't help but feel a surge of gentle affection for his eccentric flatmate. As Sherlock turned back to his painting, and as John headed to the kitchen for tea, he ran his fingers through his best friend's messy curls fondly, making Sherlock chuckle. John smiled to himself, glad his often-irascible Sherlock was in such a good mood today.

The Tree still made John wonder and worry, but he wouldn't ask about it now.

Another day, perhaps.

Three days later...

John trudged up the stairs, laden with shopping bags and damp from a sprinkling rain. "Hey, Sherlock, I'm home," he called. "Finish that triptych yet? You with your secrecy is getting old, and I want to see it-"

He froze on the landing, eyes widening. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor, unconscious, a small pool of scarlet blood spreading onto the floor under his head. "Sherlock!" He rushed forward, his memories of first aid from high school lifeguarding at the local pool flooding to the forefront of his mind.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he pressed slightly shaking fingers to the prostrate man's pulse point, giving a halting sigh as he found the beat steady and strong.

Sherlock stirred under John's touch, and moments later his eyes flickered open. "John...?" He moved, then groaned. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I found you like this. Do you remember anything?"

Sherlock grimaced and sat up, movements ginger and slow, his hand lifting to the bleeding cut on the back of his head. "Someone came up behind me. I didn't see much more than a glimpse in the mirror at the last moment. Tall man in black. I didn't see many more details."

John had hurried to the kitchen to grab a cloth and first aid kit. He helped Sherlock into his chair and set about wiping away the blood, then brushing at the wound with alcohol. At the first contact of the solution, Sherlock made a rather unflattering shriek and tried to swat John's hand away. "Oh, don't be a baby, you prat," John rolled his eyes. "Now listen, why did this happen? Did they take anything?"

Sherlock nodded, his gaze shifting to something over John's shoulder. He turned and felt his breath catch in his throat.

Their flat was characterized largely by art supplies, paint and brushes and canvases and cameras. Most of John's restorations were set up on easels or held in a wooden case until they could be returned to the owners, neat and orderly. On the other hand, the works of Sherlock, as the designated much-more-scatterbrained-one, left his canvases lying about all over the place, on the tables or on the bookshelves or - on very rare occasions - actually hung (probably crookedly) on the walls. It was exactly as their dormitory had been back in uni, really, except larger and therefore even messier.

Now, however, the flat was ransacked - not that it looked it. In fact, it almost would have looked no different than usual, aside from the glaring and conspicuous absence of all Sherlock's artwork. Both canvases and framed, photos and paintings, were nowhere to be seen. John stood in shock, his lips parted and heart pounding. His own possessions seemed to be untouched, but...

"Sherlock," he breathed, not sure what else to say, as his hand reached back to rest on his friend's shoulder.

"I know," Sherlock whispered. When John glanced back, he saw the usually cool and assured brunet avoiding his gaze, eyes downcast and forlorn. The sight tugged at something deep inside John, and he knelt in front of Sherlock, clutching his upper arms and waiting until the other man raised his gaze to meet his.

"We'll find them," John breathed, urgent and insistent and determined. "I promise you, Sherlock." He wasn't sure if he meant the robbers or the artwork. Then again, it was likely finding one meant finding the other.

Sherlock nodded, though his eyes told a different story; he appeared dubious and all of a sudden exhausted. "Hey," John said in a quieter voice, loosening his grip. "It's going to be okay."

But Sherlock just pulled away from him, utterly defeated, and retreated to his bedroom, leaving John surrounded by their disaster.

John had known Sherlock for over twenty years now, ever since the flying yellow paint incident in 2D art class in Year 5. Ten-year-old Sherlock had been tossed out of the classroom twenty minutes early, even though everyone knew it had been an accident. After that incident, or more accurately after the curly-haired boy had stammered an awkward apology to a paint-spattered John, the two had been inseparable.

All through the rest of school, into college, and then university, John and Sherlock had discovered their mutual passion for art. The power to create worlds, to find adventure, all through a paintbrush was something they both craved. John loved the rush he felt when inspiration struck, or when he said or did something to inspire Sherlock. It was a thrill like no other he'd ever felt. Sherlock loved the complexity of art, the puzzle, the never-ending possibilities.

The two artists had never known much success, John especially, thus his other (higher income) job restoring the works of other, much more famous artists, for galleries and exhibits and private owners alike. Sherlock was marginally more known in the art community, especially considering his own style seemed to be unique in its supreme accuracy and attention to details no one else bothered with. His skill was practically supernatural, and many a private buyer coveted a Sherlock Holmes original. Not that he was inclined to sell many, claiming more often than not that the insipid public couldn't appreciate or understand art and thus didn't deserve ownership of even attempts at it.

It was an arrogant and superior opinion, but John had known Sherlock long enough to have seen through to the truth ages ago. Beyond the hard and haughty exterior, his flatmate and best friend was surprisingly insecure and vulnerable, especially when it came to his art. He didn't believe, deep down, that he deserved the praise he received, and therefore he kept his art locked away and private. His guarded and sensitive side, though largely suppressed, was what kept him from opening up, and - more importantly - what kept John from being able, even after all this time, to break through his walls and get him to believe what John had known Sherlock and his art really were: extraordinary.

And now that all Sherlock's art was gone, his shell was cracking, and not in a good way. He obviously felt more exposed than ever before, and John hated every second of witnessing it. He didn't know exactly how to help his friend, because Sherlock was keeping everything locked inside even worse than before. And it was killing John to see him like this.

The first day after the robbery, John had come home from teaching to find Sherlock locked in his room, refusing to come out. John, though used to his flatmate's melodramatic pouting spells, was worried by this one, especially when he stopped responding to John's calls. After several minutes of being faced with silence, John resorted to rather creative measures of checking on Sherlock. Once the lock was picked, John was met with a pillow to the face and a slamming door. Thus ended John's attempts to talk to Sherlock about it the first day.

The next day, Sherlock emerged from the room but refused to speak to John at all. He attacked his violin aggressively, giving John quite a vicious headache. When John finally plucked up the courage to ask if Sherlock wanted something to eat, all he got was a caustic retort and stomping footsteps as Sherlock retreated, yet again, into his room. He didn't come back out. John, worried but also slightly afraid now that Sherlock was not only angry but also armed with a violin bow (more treacherous than a pillow, after all), didn't try again that second day.

By the time the third day after the robbery began, John had had enough. The police had no leads on the missing art, and Sherlock was clearly sore at heart about the loss.

"Sherlock!" he called through the door, which was once again closed. "Come on, mate, it's been days. Can you at least tell me what the police said?"

No response, other than a rustling sound, like a bed sheet. "Sherlock..." John sighed. "Seriously, I'm not an idiot. I know you're in there. And I know how you are when you get upset. So let me in, I want to talk to you."

"Go away."

"No."

"John, I said go away."

John tried the doorknob - just in case - but it was locked, just as he had expected. He rolled his eyes, but headed into the loo. From there, he opened the door leading into Sherlock's room and stormed in.

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, eyes wide. John chuckled. "You forgot to lock this door, you moron."

He received a fierce, blue-eyed scowl as a reply. As John approached the bed, Sherlock huffed and rolled over, his back to John.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John murmured. "I want to help you. I know what happened to your... I mean, what happened with the robbery... It was awful, but you can't just shut me out. Talk to me. What did the police say?"

"No leads," Sherlock muttered, voice low. "But then, the police are all imbeciles, so that isn't a surprise."

John sighed. He'd been afraid of that. "Listen," he laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "There's still a chance they'll find the art. But I'm confused..."

"About what?" Sherlock turned his head slightly toward John, but didn't roll over.

"Well... You always treat your art like you don't care, like it's not for anything but your own creative outlet. Most artists sell lots of their work, but you almost never do. It's like you aren't even proud of them, so... so why are you so cut up about losing them?"

"Oh for God's sake, John! Of course I'm proud," Sherlock snapped. "Of course I am! I know I'm good at what I do!"

John frowned, feeling utterly wrong-footed all of a sudden. "But then... Why do you always keep it all hidden? Why won't you talk to me about what happened? I can tell you're upset, but now you're avoiding me too. You've never done that before, not like this. Sure you've had your sulks and your tantrums, but this... you're kind of scaring me. We've known each other for years, you know you can trust me."

"John..." Sherlock sighed, burying his face in a pillow. "Please just go away."

"Not until you answer me. What are you really mad about?"

Sherlock lifted his head. "What does that mean?"

"I mean I can tell you aren't just upset about your art being stolen. If that was all it was, you wouldn't be avoiding me and snapping at me when I try to force you to talk."

"I..." Sherlock was biting his lip.

"Sherlock," John felt thorough exasperation at this point. "Come on, mate, don't you trust me? You know you can tell me anything!"

"No."

John blinked. "What?"

"No, John. I can't. Not... Not about this." He sat up, avoiding John's gaze. "You don't understand."

"Try me," John challenged.

Sherlock looked at him directly at last, eyes bright and full of vulnerability. "You think I believe my work isn't any good. That's not true. The contrary, in fact. As I've just said, I know it's good. I know I'm one of the best contemporary artists in London, in England, and maybe even the entirety of Europe." John snorted at this rather in-character lack of modesty, and Sherlock rolled his eyes right back. "You know what I mean. I'm well aware my skill is highly admired among the few in the art world who know about me. I just... I'm not willing to share my works."

"Why not, Sherlock? They're fantastic."

"That's the problem, John!" Sherlock burst out. "If people knew the quality of my work, I'd lose you!"

John froze, staring at Sherlock in bewilderment. "Okay... What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked down. "I fear that... If my career were to begin flourishing... I mean, considering that your work is primarily restoration and that your own work, while still above average in skill, is still somewhat inferior to my own... So if... if people could truly see what I can do... It would undoubtedly put a strain on our friendship." His voice became pained the more he spoke. "If I were to achieve some level of success, and you didn't, you would resent it. Resent me."

He shifted, but John was still stunned and frozen. "Sher... Sherlock," he stammered, astonished. "How long have you known me? You're my best mate, and... You have to know by now that you are my priority. As much as I love what I do, I... I care about you more." He smiled, gentle and hopefully reassuring. "You can't really think that seeing you get exactly the reputation and career you deserve would make me resent you? Would drive me away? That's... Sherlock, that's just not on. All I want is for you to be happy. How can I be happy if the best person I've ever known isn't?"

Sherlock fidgeted, but he still looked unconvinced. "Sherlock," John tried again. "I'm not going anywhere. Honestly, I'm kind of stunned I have to spell this out for you. You're my best friend, and I wouldn't abandon you, especially not over something like this. I can't imagine ever resenting you, especially when I've been wanting you to succeed, been bloody rooting for you, Sherlock, for so long. I wouldn't leave you. Okay?"

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes almost childlike in the yearning John saw there, yearning for acceptance and a reassurance that John wasn't going away, that Sherlock wouldn't be alone. John just smiled at him, reaching out to ruffle his curls. It was a habit that had started back in school, when Sherlock's hair had been even longer and wilder. When John had learned back then that although Sherlock had devoted parents who doted on him, they weren't the best at showing physical affection. So John, barely twelve, had taken it upon himself to make Sherlock, his brilliant best friend with the secret dazzling smile, feel as loved as possible. Even if John never said his feelings so explicitly. Hence the hair-ruffling.

Now, in response, Sherlock smiled up at John and sat up, making more room on the bed.

"So will you... will you accept it if I ever decide to sell any of them?" Sherlock asked, leaning into his best friend's side a bit. "Assuming we get them back of course."

"Of course I'll accept that, you moron," John smiled.

Sherlock returned it hesitantly. "Well... about the past few days. You've been... patient... and that's good..."

That made John chuckle; those words were Sherlock-speak for I'm sorry. "It's okay, Sherlock. You know we've dealt with worse."

"Yes," he replied, smirking. "You once spilled paint on that sketch I'd been working on for weeks."

John laughed. "Hey, you spilled a bottle of yellow paint on me once!"

Sherlock shoved him with playfulness. "It was an accident!"

"So was mine!"

"Oh... shut up!"

John grinned, feeling as if he had won that round. "Hey," he said, sobering. "We'll be okay. We'll get those paintings back."

Sherlock looked a bit doubtful, but he still nodded. "Thank you, John."

"For what?" John asked, nudging Sherlock's side gently.

Sherlock didn't answer right away, just leaned back into John's side again. "You are better than I deserve."

John didn't reply, though he was thinking privately just how wrong Sherlock was. He hoped one day Sherlock would see that.

As it turned out, Sherlock and John didn't have to wait long to have news on the stolen paintings; a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade stumbled across the works in a large cardboard box when he came into the scene of a double homicide. According to him, the two men were professional jewel thieves who had decided to branch out to art theft and smuggling. Considering Sherlock was such an under-the-radar artist, they had only found out about him from a cousin of the second thief, who worked in a small gallery in Cambridge. It was one of the few galleries that had managed to get their hands on a Holmes work; it seemed that the cousin's loose tongue had led to the impromptu and sloppy robbery at 221B.

As for the murders, the thieves had grown even more sloppy when they'd both attempted to double cross the other and take the paintings for themselves (and therefore also take the profits they would have gotten for selling them on the black market).

It was a pathetically simple murder, Sherlock had grouched. Even he could have solved it, though he had no background in criminology. John had pointed out that it didn't matter how well the crimes had been executed, as long as they got Sherlock's art back. Which they did, just four days after their theft. Sherlock had tried to hide his relieved grin as he'd placed the box on the sofa and begun to root through it, cataloging and ensuring all was present and accounted for. But John had seen that grin, and he smiled as well and set out clearing space on the tables so that Sherlock's art could go back where it belonged. As he had headed to bed later that night, John left Sherlock playing a cheerful tune on his violin, his paintings strewn about on every conceivable surface once again.

John beamed. That was more like it.

The next morning, when John came back downstairs, there was a new painting on an ease by the couch, the paint still damp. He glanced at it, seeing a green landscape where two small figures were playing. It was lovely, as always. Then, as he turned toward the kettle, he froze and whipped back around, approaching the painting. He sat on the sofa to examine it more closely.

The Tree was gone. Or maybe it was there, but it was different. There was indeed a tree in the foreground of the painting, framing the outer edge of the scene, but it was robust and healthy, the leaves emerald, the sunlight slanting through its supple branches. It might be the same Tree of Darkness, but it was hardly dark anymore.

Then, as John leaned closer to the drying paint, he realized he knew the two figures in the painting. In fact, he recognized this place. He had been there. He and Sherlock had been there, one summer, in a field near Dover Castle. 14-year-old Sherlock, tagging along on a Watson family trip, and 15-year-old John gleeful at the prospect of having his favorite person in the world with him in such a beautiful place, especially after having spent weeks begging Sherlock to come along. They had played on the rolling hills above the white cliffs, laughing and shouting. In the painting, the shorter blond boy was reaching up and wrapping an arm around the shoulder of the taller dark-haired boy. His hand was in the dark-haired boy's curls, their body language playful, carefree.

It was beautiful.

And that was the moment that John realized the significance of the Tree of Darkness. He was astonished he hadn't realized it before. The Tree represented the shadow that hung over every aspect of Sherlock's life with John: his reluctance to accept John's childhood invitations, because he thought it was charity, his insecurity about their friendship's ability to endure, his worry that if the work ever came between them, John would leave. The Tree symbolized all of that. As time had passed, Sherlock's worry, instead of diminishing, had only grown and thus so had the Tree. It had taken the conversation from the previous day, John's exasperated exclamation that he was never leaving Sherlock, for the brilliant idiot to be able to start to let go of his fear. To let go of the Tree.

"John?"

He looked up, grinning at Sherlock, though at the same time, he felt like throwing his arms around Sherlock in an uncharacteristically emotional display and squeezing him until he was sure that Sherlock knew without doubt that John would never give up their life. "Sherlock."

"What do you think?" Sherlock was smiling, knowingly. He knew John had realized what the Tree meant. However, it seemed he also knew that the Tree's ability to haunt him and his art was no longer present.

John looked from him to the new painting and back, meeting Sherlock's swirling ocean eyes. "I think it's extraordinary."

But he knew what he really meant. You are extraordinary, Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back and raised a teasing eyebrow. "I know."

John burst out laughing. "You arrogant sod!" he teased right back. "Can't you try to be humble?" In a fit of juvenile impulsiveness, he flung a pillow at Sherlock's head.

Sherlock ducked and grinned. "Is that any way to treat a fellow artist?" he exclaimed in a voice full of laughter. "Now you're in for it."

He snatched up a bottle of yellow paint and looked at John significantly. John ran then, laughing, and Sherlock followed with a now yellow-sodden brush in his hands. Their delighted giggles during the ensuing fight echoed through the walls of paint-spattered 221B. And it seemed as if the light shone brighter, the darkness dissipated at last.

I hope you enjoyed this first installment in my study in AUs! Leave a review if you are so inclined, lovelies :)

The inspiration for Sherlock's two paintings focused on in this story were the works of Thomas Kinkade (whose depiction of light is quite lovely, I think - those images just have such a nice glow) and John Constable (some of his pastoral scenes and such match the mood I imagined in Sherlock's painting of him and John).

Next story: Busboy